Raindrops
by Emperor of Aces
Summary: A series short works, all less than 1000 words, depicting various scenes from the lives of The Felt and The Midnight Crew. Rating Subject to change as the collection grows.
1. Broken Heaters

**Broken Heaters  
**

The heaters in their shared home had always been faulty. Since day one of owning the place, the radiators would spit and hiss in the most sickly of ways, and on some nights – nights such as this – the boiler would decide it was time to go on a vacation. None of them knew how to fix these issues, and none of them were brave enough to risk letting some stranger into their fortress to mend the broken pipes. After all, who knew where The Felt had hidden eyes.

The nights got cold as sin and could freeze the balls off a polar bear, but only two of them actually suffered. Slick would lay in his bed beneath his raggedy flannel covers, his scrawny limbs tucked tightly against his body as he shivered against the cold. Droog would have an adequate quantity of blankets heaped atop his body, but even they could do little to protect him from the freezing air seeping in through the walls. Boxcars and Deuce, however...

A beam of light sliced the darkness as the child-like man, clad in footie pajamas and toting a blanket that dragged behind him like a droopy banner, opened the door to his friend's bedroom. He shuffled over to the enormous bed and poked the snoring, mountainous mound that was his dearest companion, Hearts Boxcars.

Boxcars shifted with a groan and then propped himself up on an elbow. "Ugh. I'm tryin' ta sleep. What do ya want?"

"The heaters out and I'm cold," came Deuce's sleepy reply. He did this sort of thing a lot to Boxcars, so much that he didn't even have to ask the question that sat at the tip of his tongue, because his desires were all too obvious.

"Oh." Boxcars' voice lost its exasperated edge when he heard it was Deuce who wanted him. "Alright then, c'mon."

He flipped back the covers, allowing for the tiny man to climb in and curl up tightly against Boxcars' stomach.

Deuce squirmed slightly, and then sighed in contentment when he found a comfortable sleeping position. "G'night, Boxcars. Thanks."

"No problem, lil' buddy." He settled his head against his pillow and shut his eyes. "Now, let's get ta sleep."

In that brisk and chilly, two would sleep poorly.

The other two would sleep warm and sound.


	2. The Calling

**The Calling  
**

You're not even surprised when you see it's _him_ of all people causing trouble in Scratch's apartment. The place is completely ransacked; cold foam coats nearly every surface and oozes down the walls to pool upon the charred Oriental rugs, once priceless works of art in their own right, that stretch from one end of the apartment to the other. Everything is tinged black, and a hazy blanket of smokes still hangs in the air. He stands over the pulverized corpse of Matchsticks, whose still face now more closely resembles raw hamburger than anything else, holding a crowbar that drips with fresh blood. It's obvious he's the cause of this disaster, and he just stares at you, slack-jawed and completely dumbfounded that you're still alive and kicking.

You hate that you have to be the one to put him down. But at least you can snuff him out with a flash and a bang, let his lights wink away like a star going supernova, only in an explosion of lead and crimson instead of white-hot energy. You don't like Spades Slick, but you can say without shame that you respect survivors, and if he doesn't fit the bill, then you don't know who does. It can't get any rougher than going into the desert with nothing and coming out with a city. You can tip your hat to that any day. But your gang – your family – you loved them, and you might respect Slick, sure, but this is payback for what he did to them. No one screws with your brothers and gets away with it. Not while there's still air in your lungs and blood in your veins.

You heft your gun, aiming right for the center of his chest.

Duty calls.


	3. The Little Atlas

"The Little Atlas"

He hates crying in front of people, because they all expect him to be strong, and they say strong men don't cry. No, not physically strong; he's short, fat, and frail, and even if he tried, he could never be physically strong. They expect him to be _emotionally_ strong.

"That's Doze," they often say, "and we love him because he's always there for us. If we need to cry, we go to him, and he lets us, and for that we love him. He keeps us stable, because he keeps all our secrets and he himself never cries."

He detests his own 'strong and happy' facade. Detests it like no other, because, while it bolsters them up to nigh-impossible heights, it constantly tears him down. If they knew his true colors, his feelings as blue as his own motif, he'd let them all down. Doze partakes in no huge heists, but his friends see him as a hero anyway, because he seems ever so optimistic about the Felt, and when they need a shoulder to cry on, he's always there.

But they forget he was once an actor. Every day, though he has long since left his life in the theater behind, he still acts. He says he believes in the Felt, but he doesn't really think they can vanquish the Crew, and in himself and his own abilities, he holds no faith at all. When his friends spill their dark thoughts and fears, he keeps his verdant eyes dry for their sake, but really, he wishes to sit there and break with them, for they keep such horrible things locked in their hearts, and all that sadness is infectious like a disease. His lies are built on love, but they are lies nonetheless. He hates himself for being as real as a dream.

He is plastic to all of his friends. All except for _one_.

In front of Itchy, Doze can cry. It's ironic, because Itchy is usually such a rambunctious twit who never bothers caring for other people's feelings, however, even before they were in love, he always made time for Doze. Doze doesn't question it, he gets the vibes that even if he did, Itchy wouldn't answer, and when he needs to rid himself of his weighty emotional baggage, he always goes to Itchy.

Doze shuffles into Itchy's pigsty of a room, little tears twinkling in the corners of his huge eyes like watery jewels. He would normally bicker about Itchy's room, about the blotchy coffee stains on the threadbare rug or the pile of filthy laundry skulking in the corner, but when he's this miserable, he can't be bothered. He just sniffles, his little shoulders shaking, and whimpers Itchy's name.

"God dammit, Doze." When Itchy answers, he tries to sound angry, but it doesn't work. He gets up from his seat on his bed and gently pulls Doze towards him. The embrace is protective and firm, but lovingly gentle.

They go over to the bed then and curl up together beneath the covers. With his face pushed into Itchy's bony chest, Doze cries and cries.

Itchy, becoming uncharacteristically patient, strokes Doze's back and hushes him, tells him everything is going to be alright. He cups Doze's face in his hand and turns it upwards so that he may kiss the tears off his lover's round cheeks. Smiling down at Doze, he caresses Doze's face, still dampened by his tears, with the back of his hand, and then kisses Doze's soft, full lips.

When Doze pulls away he is smiling, and then he wraps his chubby arms around Itchy and pushes his face into the other man's neck. He sighs heavily, the sound soft and shaky.

"Itchy," Doze's voice is quite and breathy, just barely even a whisper, "make love to me."

So he does. And it feels wonderful, because even if Itchy isn't perfect in bed, he's Itchy, and Doze adores him just for being himself. When Doze's walls begin to crumble, Itchy is always there to fill the cracks, leaving them stronger than ever before. There is nothing he loves more than being with Itchy in these intimate moments when they share with each other things that they'll never share with anyone else.

While they lay there together, Doze forgets that he's ever felt sad. As long as this man is beside him, he'll always be alright. He isn't the Felt's little Atlas who carries everyone's pain on his shoulders, and locks away all their secrets.

He's just Doze. He's just Doze who loves Itchy with all his heart, and that is all.

That is all it ever should be.


	4. What Can Not Be

(English Family AU story)

They only keep you around because you're good at doing what you're told. The others call and you answer, always willing, always ready. Push in a pin, take a life. Set up a ward, thwart the enemy. It is always Die do this, and Die to that, and you do it because if you don't, they'll disown you.

You are a loathsome piece of shit. The trash in the gutters holds more worth than your pitiful existence. Even your one so-called 'friend' harbors little actual love for you. You let him go on believing that his feelings remain well-hidden, but he can not conceal the truth from your carefully observant gaze. Every roll of his eyes, every scoff disguised as a sneeze; you are aware of each subtle expression of his exasperation. You merely remain silent, for there is safety in silence. You can not risk conflict with the singular individual who finds it in his heart to tolerate a creature such as yourself.

But when alone, such as here and now, you forsake silence and allow yourself to scream. You screech like a wild animal and writhe in your bed, hot tears searing your flesh as they rush down your feverish cheeks. Drool seeps from your open, wailing mouth. There is no end to your sorrows, no end to the black, nebulous torment that perpetually hovers about you like a shroud. It grins at you, its lips held together by fleshy strings of darkness. It breathes down your neck, its breath fiery and rancid.

You once knew what it meant to be happy. You knew what it was to laugh, to smile, to feel the world's warmth glowing in your chest. Now you are but a hollow shell, void of all joy and existing day by day with this shadowy blanket hunched over your emaciated frame, its claws clamped to your shoulders as it cackles, relishing your slow, insane demise.

She's there then, out of the darkness and into your room. You find yourself somehow in her arms. Tears prickle at the corners of your burning eyes.

The Master's daughter. You always try to forget about her, to push her away despite her friendly advances. You never knew what it was to feel for anyone until you were introduced to her. But she can't love you. Not in the way you love her, at least, and what is the point if you can not have it all? To care about someone more than they care about you is a hideous feeling. You can not bear it. Like your depression, it shall destroy you.

You wish to shove her away, to make her leave, to scream obscenities directly to her face. You want to tell her she's a bitch for expressing her concern. You know she doesn't care. She's only hurting you, making it worse.

Unaware of your inner torment, she pets your head and shushes you.

You want to hit her, to feel your claws tear into her delicate flesh. How lovely it would be to destroy that darling little face! To wipe the smile off it for good!

Her fingers lace with yours. She's holding your hand. She squeezes it reassuringly.

Die, die, die, die you stupid whore. You want her to fucking die. You want to see the blood of her gutted corpse smeared along your walls.

Dry lips touch your forehead and arms enfold you into a tight embrace. "Die…"

Your breathing slows at the sound of your name. She has such a nice voice. It's like the nectar of a honeysuckle, so small and barely there, yet so soft and so sweet.

You wanted to tell her awful things. But you know that isn't really how you feel. It is your greatest desire to tell her that…to tell her that…

"Die? Come now, listen to me…"

…to tell her that you love her.

"Die, everything is going to be okay."

But some things can not be.


End file.
